


Hold Me, Keep Me

by clear_sight



Series: Like a Drug [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual!Sherlock, Heterosexual!John, M/M, Non-Sexual Submission
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-03
Updated: 2012-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-06 17:29:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clear_sight/pseuds/clear_sight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has asked a lot of John, and it'll be a learning process for them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold Me, Keep Me

**Author's Note:**

> Part two in this universe. This story will be multi-chaptered. There really isn't any rhyme or reason to which parts will have how many chapters except what seemed right in my head. As to this particular chapter, I did try to keep everyone IC. We'll see how well I did with that.  
> Thanks again to JahLoveAngel for letting me bounce ideas and concerns off of her. This isn't beta'd or Brit-picked, so let me know if there are any issues.

It had been three days since their last case and already John could see Sherlock starting to climb the walls in boredom.  Two nights ago he had done nothing but play the violin for four straight hours.  Consequentially John hadn’t gotten much sleep.  That was the thing with Sherlock’s moods – they didn’t just affect Sherlock.  When Sherlock was bored, John became irritable.  There was nothing for it.  His flatmate drove him absolutely bonkers when he started crawling up the walls like this.

Currently the lanky man was pacing a small pathway through the clutter in front of the window, babbling ceaselessly.  Not to John.  John was hidden behind his morning paper, doing his best to deflect his flatmate’s boredom inspired games.  No, he was talking to that blasted skull again.  John still couldn’t understand his fascination with it, but Sherlock seemed to have given it a name and a personality.  A side-effect of his previous drug use, John theorized.  But the never ending dialogue between Sherlock and the silent skull was nearly as irritating as the mind games Sherlock played with him.

With a sigh John folded his newspaper and set it to the side.  They had discussed their proposed arrangement a few more times, but nothing had come of it so far outside of Sherlock sleeping in John’s bed on a couple of occasions.  It was just as much for companionship as so that the doctor could make sure the detective was actually resting.  He cleared his throat softly to get the detective’s attention before speaking in an authoritarian voice.  “Sherlock, put the skull down.  I want you to come here and kneel for me.”

“Now, John?” the detective protested.

“Sherlock, you do not have a case on.  You have not worked on your blog since the end of the last case.  All of your experiments are at temporary stopping points.  Whatever you’re talking to that skull about, it isn’t critical.  Now come,” John commanded.

Sherlock hesitated just briefly before setting the skull back on the mantle and moving to kneel at John’s feet.  The army doctor straightened in his chair, shifting just a little closer to the edge to afford himself a better view of Sherlock.  As much as the detective may not have realized it, his body language spoke volumes even when he didn’t want it to, at least to John.  Gently he threaded his fingers through Sherlock’s shaggy curls.  They were softer even than they appeared.

“You do still want this, don’t you?” he asked softly.  The younger man nodded his assent, but John wanted to hear him say it.  “You’re sure?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock replied.  Then as an afterthought he tacked on, “Sir.”

Sherlock really had surprised him with his soldier fetish.  Then again, John wasn’t really sure if he could call it that.  Certainly he had asked that first night for John to put on his uniform.  But he had gotten the impression that it was less about the soldiering and more about the hierarchy.  As an experienced soldier, John knew how it worked.  You didn’t question orders from above, unless there was good reason.  It seemed that was more the part that had Sherlock intrigued.  It just happened that he knew John was a Captain and had watched him pull rank in a military facility.  Therefore, he sought out John as a soldier to try to cement the idea of John as a commander.  That was a better word for it, John mused, than master or owner.  It conferred a more balanced power dynamic and a mutual respect.  At least in John’s mind it did.

“Good,” John replied, continuing to run his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, pulling ever so slightly to keep Sherlock’s gaze focused on him.  The pressure wasn’t enough to hurt, just enough to control.  John had already made up his mind that he wouldn’t hurt Sherlock.  There were other ways of maintaining control of the man, after all, and being controlled was what he had actually wanted.  “Good,” he repeated, a touch nervous.  He had never done this before.  “I want you to focus on me.”

He paused for a moment to take in the sight of the detective kneeling at his feet.  God, the man was beautiful.  Perhaps that was part of why people always assumed they were a couple.  More than once John had caught himself staring.  But Sherlock was just so odd.  He had an otherworldly beauty to him the likes of which John had never encountered before.  He didn’t have to be gay to appreciate that.  Although another part of that assumption might be that Sherlock had let him in, something that John had learned was beyond a rarity for him.  He sincerely appreciated it.  That was part of why they were here right now.  It took a great deal of trust to do something like this.  To give over control like this.

“Stay here for a minute,” he told Sherlock, getting up with great care so as to avoid hitting the other man in the head with his knee.  He moved as silently as possible to the other side of the room, opening the desk drawer he knew contained all the things Sherlock had thieved from Lestrade over the years, and pulled out a pair of handcuffs, happy to see Sherlock had the key as well.  The key he pocketed, but the cuffs he kept in his right hand as he knelt behind Sherlock, pulling the taller man’s arms back behind him.  “You’re a bit like me, I figure,” he explained softly as he fastened the cuffs around Sherlock’s wrists.  The taller man stayed still.  “Can’t give up without a fight.”

With Sherlock’s hands secured, John settled back into his chair, surprised to find the detective studying him curiously.  But his remark surprised him even more.  “And you think you could win that fight?”

John inhaled deeply, holding it for a moment before letting it out, steadying himself.  He wouldn’t rise to the bait of Sherlock’s comment.  Wouldn’t let the other man provoke him.  Instead he leaned forward and whispered in Sherlock’s ear, “Vatican cameos?”

The detective nodded.  That was when John seized a handful of dark curls and yanked, pulling Sherlock’s head back.  The gasp of pain and shock that escaped the taller man was strangely satisfying.  It took John back to an argument in an alleyway a couple of months prior.  _“I always hear punch me in the face when you’re talking, but usually it’s subtext.”_  

“You forget I used to be soldier.  I _killed_ people,” John growled at him.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, eyes tearing.  The hair pulling seemed to be getting to him more than John had anticipated.  “You said the same thing before.  While you were attempting to strangle me, if I remember correctly.  But while you may have killed people before, you’re very choosy about who you are willing to hurt.  You are no real threat to me.”

At this John stood swiftly.  Normally Sherlock would have been difficult to take down – he was a boxer, after all, a trained fighter – but without his hands and with the disadvantage of being on his knees, John had him flat on his back across the living room floor in a matter of a couple of moments.  And for a moment they just lay there, panting, until Sherlock spoke again. 

“You think it’s that easy?” he scoffed.  The remark was out of character for him and John knew he was trying to provoke him.  Into what, John wasn’t sure and wouldn’t contemplate.

Slowly he sat up, taking his time to draw himself up to his full height, knees still locked against Sherlock’s ribs.  Normally Sherlock would call him on puffing up like this – there was no better term for it – but now he was strangely silent.  Sturdy fingers wound their way into dark curls and pulled hard, tugging Sherlock’s head back and exposing his throat.  John’s other hand made its way to Sherlock’s throat, carefully pressing just hard enough to cause discomfort but not hard enough to cut off airflow.  Sherlock would be able to breathe, but it certainly wouldn’t feel like he could.

Sherlock’s expression was momentarily shocked, and then all the fight drained out of him.  He was still, pliant, breathing deeply and watching John closely.  John jolted back at this, dropping his hands from Sherlock’s hair and throat, almost afraid he had hurt him.  This earned him a look of concern from the taller man, who tried and failed to push himself up onto his elbows.  He was unable to change positions with John sitting on his chest and settled on holding his head up as much as he could instead.

Upon seeing that Sherlock was uninjured, John shifted off of him and pulled him back up onto his knees.  Then, much to Sherlock’s surprise, the smaller man knelt before him, holding his head in his hands.  John placed a hand over each of Sherlock’s temples, fingers threading into his curls, and just… held him there.  Nothing more.  It was what felt like several minutes before he even spoke.

“I want you calm, Sherlock,” he said, voice steady and very gently commanding.  “Just breathe with me.  Don’t focus on anything else, just me.  Listen to my voice.  Listen to my breathing and your own.  Just for a moment, just be.  Here.  With me.”

It wasn’t easy.  In fact, he doubted he’d had anything more challenging in months.  He simply did not focus his attentions that way.  And yet he felt compelled to at least try to obey.  There was just something about John.  About the fact that he could be so rough and yet so careful and soothing.  And so very full of surprises.

“Focus, Sherlock,” John reminded him, pulling him from his current train of thought.  The hands at the sides of his head shifted, one sliding into his dark mass of curls, the other pressing over his eyes, rendering him blind.  That actually startled a soft sound out of him.  “ _Focus_.  I want you to relax.  Listen to what I’m saying.  Nothing else matters.  Only this.  I want you to concentrate on my voice and my hands.”  At this the one in his hair tightened just short of enough to hurt.  “You’re going to do as I say and you aren’t going to question.  That’s an order.  Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock replied meekly.  What was it he had been expecting, exactly?  Not this, he was certain.  He knew John.  John was beyond passive and protective to a fault when it came to those he cared for.  Yet somehow Sherlock had expected that John would be more physical about this.  Bondage, albeit light, had been in Sherlock’s mental equation.  He knew John didn’t have much experience with this, if indeed he had any, and that he would probably start here.  Sensory deprivation, on the other hand, was not something Sherlock had counted on.  Again, it wasn’t much, but Sherlock’s ability to see comprised the vast majority of his ability to deduce.  His sight was his life and livelihood.  Having it taken from him, even in so gentle a manner, had him rather more off balance than he would have liked to admit.

There was also the contact that was throwing him off kilter.  Sherlock did not allow touch.  He did not like to touch or be touched.  Not usually, anyway.  John’s hand was warm and slightly rough against his face.  It was threatening without being a threat.  The mere contact set off alarm bells in Sherlock’s head and there was a tiny, horrible, nagging voice reminding him that with the way John was holding him he could easily snap his neck.  That would, after all, be something John knew how to do.  But, the more rational part of his mind reminded him, he wouldn’t.  John wouldn’t hurt him, and John most certainly wouldn’t kill him.  Still, it was a heady experience, putting his well-being so completely in someone else’s hands.  It didn’t help that John was kneeling so close that Sherlock could feel his radiant body heat.  He did not let people close to him.  He couldn’t.  He did not allow contact.

He didn’t realize he had begun to hyperventilate until John shifted his hands back to the sides of Sherlock’s head, holding him steady.  “Sherlock?  Calm down.”  There was a deep coloring of concern in his voice.  Without thinking, Sherlock kept his eyes closed.  “It’s alright.  Just breathe.  I’ve got you.  It’s okay.  Breathe.  Sherlock, open your eyes.”

There.  As silver eyes locked onto blue, Sherlock could feel his sense of balance returning a bit.  It was only John.  John his friend.  John the doctor.  John the medic.  John who was taking care of him.  It was alright.

“Are you okay?” John inquired, worry creasing his brow.

“Of course,” Sherlock replied.  But his voice was somewhat softer than he had meant it to be and just maybe he could admit to himself that that was the faintest feeling of dizziness gnawing at the edge of his consciousness, even as his breathing came back under control.

John didn’t look convinced.  “We’re done for tonight,” he intoned gently, pulling away just enough to slip behind the detective.  Sherlock heard the faint _snick_ of the lock and felt the handcuffs fall away from his wrists.  He barely kept himself from tensing as two warm fingers pressed themselves briefly to the side of his neck.  “Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable.”

“I’m _fine_ , John,” insisted Sherlock as he was hoisted off the floor and ushered over to sit on the couch.

“No, you aren’t,” John replied firmly.  “You panicked.  There was definitely _something_ wrong.  You can’t lie to me and tell me there wasn’t, Sherlock.  I know the signs of a panic attack.”  He paused for a moment, sighing very faintly.  “If this is going to work, we’re going to have to be honest with each other.  Do you understand?  You have to _tell_ me if something is too much.  That’s why you have a safeword.”

Sherlock frowned.  “It wasn’t too much, I just –”

“I won’t judge you,” John interjected, picking up on the denial in Sherlock’s tone.  “I don’t care what it is you tell me, I won’t judge you.  I know you think you need to impress the rest of the world.  You don’t need to impress me.  And you certainly don’t need to do it in a way that could harm you.”

For a long moment there was silence, and even though there were perhaps three inches of couch cushion between them John couldn’t help feeling as though a chasm had opened there.  The way Sherlock held himself and the set of his expression told John that for all that John would barely have had to reach out to touch him, the other man was a million miles away.  Somewhere in the vast halls of his mind palace, no doubt, trying to catalogue and categorize the night’s events.  It didn’t bother John, not really.  That had been very trying for Sherlock, so as long as he was dealing with it somehow – and this was a way of dealing with it, as much as John hadn’t thought so the first few times he had seen Sherlock do it – then John could content himself with that.  Still, _he_ would have liked to talk.  He wanted to know what had happened.  Something he had done had sent Sherlock into a panic attack and that was not a thought that sat well with him.  He knew he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it until he knew exactly what had triggered it.  Unfortunately, it didn’t look like that would be happening any time tonight.

“Right, well, I think it’s time we both got some sleep,” he said softly as he rose from the couch.  “If you aren’t going to go to bed, then you should at least lie down out here.”

That seemed to break Sherlock out of his reverie.  “Don’t go.”

John stopped walking, but didn’t turn back towards Sherlock.  “What?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Sherlock answered with none of his usual bite.

And so John didn’t.  Ten minutes later he was asleep on the couch, Sherlock’s long arms wrapped awkwardly around his broad frame, his face pressed against Sherlock’s narrow chest.  He was surprised that Sherlock was willing to allow so much contact after the earlier incident, but he wasn’t going to argue with it.  Sherlock, for his part, wasn’t sleeping.  Instead he was just staring out into the darkened room, taking in the heat of John curled up against his front, and wondering how they had gotten here.


End file.
